


Wengine Story

by boxparade



Series: Apartment Story [4]
Category: Panic At The Disco
Genre: Domestic, Established Relationship, M/M, Marriage, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-26
Updated: 2011-11-26
Packaged: 2017-10-26 13:34:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/283767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boxparade/pseuds/boxparade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Spencer finally makes it to the main road (two-lane, worn yellow paint down the middle and dirt encroaching on the sides) he feels the wind give up as it curls against the sturdy walls of their house.</p><p>He has a house now. It’s kind of a new thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wengine Story

**Author's Note:**

> This is the last in the series, but can be read as stand-alone, I think.
> 
> Disclaimer: I admit to using no more than a crappy online translator for the title/main element in this story. I have no idea if the application of the word is proper. I do not speak Swahili. I was simply looking for a W word because two of my titles had W's to start and OBVIOUSLY that's a pattern. And when I found this one, everything just sort of fell into place.
> 
> Un-beta'd. Sorry.

The summer winds are drier than usual, sapping the heat from Spencer’s mouth and eyes and skin, and it’s messing up his hair like hell. He’d forgotten, in the last few months of spending his days on that teetering line between psychosis and exhaustion, that there are no fucking hills in Illinois so the wind builds up enough strength to knock you off your feet. He’s been pushing against the damn wind for at least ten minutes now. Buying a house in the middle of farm country when you’re not a farmer is pretty illogical, but Ryan was right about it having its upsides.

Besides, they still have the beach house back in California. If they get bored with the cows and the quiet, they can just go home. Or, well, go there. This is home now, sort of. At least, Spencer assumes that’s what it is because Brendon’s been buying ridiculous things like soap dispensers in the shape of farm animals and salt and pepper shakers that glow neon in the dark. Spencer lets him because he assumes they’re going to stay here long enough for Spencer to accidentally “lose” these atrocities when he goes to bury them in the dirt somewhere on this giant patch of land they don’t know what to do with.

When Spencer finally makes it to the main road (two-lane, worn yellow paint down the middle and dirt encroaching on the sides) he feels the wind give up as it curls against the sturdy walls of their house.

He has a house now. It’s kind of a new thing. (Sure, they have a house in California and everything, but that’s a beach house. It’s more of a shack. They spend so much time surfing that living there is out of the question. They don’t even have a kitchen. Just a mini-fridge for the beer and a microwave for pop tarts. It’s not like this.)

Spencer’s wondering if maybe they should replace the front door, seeing as it’s bright yellow and stands out so starkly against the blue of the house that he feels ridiculous every time he has to tell someone he lives _here_ now. He’s been avoiding posting pictures online simply because of that door.

But apparently, replacing their stupid, sunshine-colored door is completely out of the question in the House of Brendon Urie, because when Spencer rounds the corner, he sees Brendon in overalls (and only overalls, thank you) with a giant sheet covering the porch, hovering over something on the ground with such intent that Spencer knows this is going to be another one of those things. Those things that he has to just go with, and let be, and then carefully explain to people, when they ask, that the man he married is _actually_ four years old and couldn’t possibly understand the word _no._

Brendon must see him, because he turns, grins, and stands. As Spencer approaches the war zone on their porch, he realizes that the reason Brendon seems so bright is because he has splotches of paint _everywhere._ His hands, his overalls, the tops of his bare feet, a giant glob of orange clinging to his hair, and streaks of red-maybe-purple running in finger-sized lines down his cheeks.

Spencer’s pretty sure there’s paint on his _teeth_. “You are disgusting,” he tells Brendon, “you have paint on your teeth. Your _teeth,_ Brendon.”

Brendon licks his lips and then smacks them, saying “Mmm, blueberry. And possibly a bit of lead. Keep out of reach of children.”

Spencer rolls his eyes, asks himself why he’s in love with this moron, and lets Brendon kiss him without giving much thought to—

“You _asshole,_ ” Spencer says, laughing as he pulls away and looks down. Sure enough, there are two lime-green, shiny, wet handprints on the back of his jeans. He’s never going to be able to wear these jeans again. Unless they go to one of those neon paint clubs where no one will give two shits. It wasn’t on his to-do list.

Brendon just grins wider, showing every one of his slightly multi-colored teeth, and Spencer can taste the paint on his own lips.

“So, now that you’ve _destroyed_ my last good pair of jeans…” A blatant lie, but seriously, _lime green handprints on his ass._ “Care to explain why the…this?” Spencer crosses his arms and tries to look menacing, but he’s pretty sure he has paint on his face now too, so it probably doesn’t work too well.

Brendon’s still smiling when he turns around and goes to pick up something off the porch. It looks like a slab of wood, relatively new and bright with edges cut to look like it was naturally ripped out of the side of a tree. Spencer has no idea why he has a slab of wood, what he _needs_ with a slab of wood, where he found said slab of wood, when Brendon _bought_ aforementioned slab, or pretty much anything of that nature.

That, however, seems to also be beside the point, because Brendon turns the slab around in his hands, not presenting it to Spencer but rather walking right past him with it, to the edge of the porch where the posts connect to the roof, and he struggles for a minute to slip the piece of wood onto a nail sticking out of the side of their column. There’s a tiny hole drilled in the top of the wood, and Spencer’s honestly freaking the fuck out because Brendon using _power tools,_ what the fuck?

But then Brendon’s backing away and squinting at the thing, tilting his head before deeming it good and smiling, and Spencer can’t help it. He really can’t. Brendon looks like it’s fucking Christmas and he’s five, and he’s covered in paint, and Spencer _married_ this man, bought a goddamn house with this man, and he’s sure, somewhere along the way, he had a damn good reason for doing so. Which he uses to justify his reason to indulge Brendon and just go with it.

He walks a few steps back, coming to stand quietly next to Brendon so he can look at the slab-of-wood creation.

The first thing Spencer notices is the rainbow. _Then_ he realizes that this little creation is actually a sign. And then he actually _reads_ the fucking thing, and of every thing he could possibly imagine a sign on their house saying—even things spawned from Brendon’s mind when he’s been left alone far too long with their moving boxes filled with horrible things Spencer hasn’t found the time to hide again—this was not it. Whatever this is. Spencer thinks it’s a word, but he really can’t be sure.

“Um…”

“Isn’t is great?” Brendon asks, as if Spencer understands. Suddenly Spencer feels like he’s in one of those situations where the wife says something about something the husband has no clue about, and usually the husband will go _um, um, I don’t—what is it?_ and then the wife gets all pissy and shit because husbands are supposed to be psychic. So instead he tries to play along like he understands, except for the part where he _has no fucking idea where to start_ , and the part where Brendon isn’t his wife, so instead he just asks:

“What the fuck is that?”

True to form, Brendon sighs, put-upon, and rolls his eyes. But there’s no pissy look or storming off, so Spencer thinks he’s doing pretty damn well. “It’s a sign.”

“Yeah,” Spencer says. “I gathered.”

Brendon sighs again. “It’s a sign. It says _wengine._ ”

“Right,” Spencer replies blankly.

“ _Wengine_ means 'all the rest' in Swahili.”

“Right.”

Brendon rolls his eyes. Again. (Spencer would be pissed but he’s kind of too confused to bitch Brendon out for being a girly little bitch.)

“It’s a _message,_ Spencer.” Brendon says this as if he somehow expects Spencer to have an epiphany. As if it’s supposed to mean something. He kind of gathered that there was a message there, somewhere. Maybe. A hint of one.

“And you couldn’t just say _welcome_ ….why?”

“Because it’s not that kind of message.”

Spencer shifts, pats Brendon gingerly on the shoulder, and turns to leave. “Alright, Ryan. Whatever you say.”

Brendon punches Spencer in the arm and laughs, says “you jerk!”

“Well, stop being all metaphorical! It’s too early for that shit.”

“It’s nine in the afternoon.”

“It’s still— Oh, don’t you _even—”_

 __

At that point, they mostly devolve into giggles and a fake-struggle. Spencer stops before they both wind up wrestling on the ground, mainly because he doesn’t want the first time their neighbors meet them to be when they’re writhing around in the dirt, naked and sweaty and doing things that definitely don’t count as “wrestling”.

“Okay, okay, Mr. Grande Artiste,” Spencer says, slapping Brendon’s hand away from his ass for the ninth time because he really doesn’t need any more paint there, thank you very much. “Want to explain why you’re writing Swahili words on our house?” Spencer tries to cover up the way his voice hitches on _our_ and basically gave up halfway through _house,_ but Brendon’s grinning in a way that says he knows anyway.

“Because,” Brendon says, drawn-out and dead-serious, “I’m trying to be like the Lion King. I want you to dress up in a lion suit and have you sing me pretty songs where you replace the most important word with poorly translated Swahili.”

“Don’t make me hit you again.”

Brendon laughs, light and open and hearty and this, Spencer thinks, is why they’re married. The sun and the paint on his nose and the line of his throat when he throws back his head and laughs like he fucking means it. Like it’s everything. (It is.)

“I told you, it means _all the rest._ ” Brendon repeats calmly, and he’s still looking at the sign and not at Spencer, even though Spencer’s been watching Brendon like a creeper for the past five minutes. They’re married; he’s entitled.

“Okay. And what does _that_ mean?”

“Now which one of us is Ryan fucking Ros—”

“Nevermind, just—”

“I don’t—”

“No, seriously, please can you—”

“Yeah, sure, I mean— No, yeah, okay.”

Brendon takes a moment to center himself, steady himself, and Spencer watches the way his chin comes down a bit: insecurity. The way his eyes flutter a bit: reminiscence. The way he swallows softly: anticipation. The way he looks to Spencer before he starts: assurance. Trust.

Love.

“I— Look, I’m not trying to make any statements or certainties, I’m just— This is how— Okay, so I just figured…well, we did the whole growing up thing, right? Like, we did the growing up and we did the shitty teenage years and awkward first time and we did the whole career thing, and the wild partying 20s thing, and the living-the-dream thing with the surfing and LA, and then we did the whole getting married thing and settling down thing, and so, like, we’re here. Now. And we’ve done all that. And—” Brendon shifts visible, and it’s either a sign of nerves or a sign that he’s trying to figure out the best way to navigate his thoughts.

“And we’re here, and we just bought a fucking _house_ together, and this is real and it’s permanent—or, well, more permanent than— But anyway, we went through all that and we got to this point, and we’re still here, and now we get to do all the rest here. Everything else. We get to just…stay here and do it. Whenever it all happens, we get to be here and be together and just go through it. All the rest. I mean—”

Brendon stops talking then. Not because he’s done, not because he wanted to stop, but because Spencer went and did one of those stupidly romantic things. The kind that they only ever do in movies, except not because Spencer just did it? Yeah, one of those things. The one where he pushes Brendon up against the nearest surface and kisses the fuck out of him. Because how could he not?

“Mmphmmgrrghhmm.”

“Shut up,” Spencer says against the warm skin of Brendon’s jaw. There’s paint there, and there’s probably paint on the side of the house, and it’s already all over Spencer, and there are at least three neighbors that could pass by any moment, and the sun is uncomfortably hot and making everything sticky, and Spencer doesn’t give a flying fuck.

In a moment, he’s going to pull himself together long enough to drag them both inside. Then, he’s going to fuck Brendon against the wall. Then, he’s going to actually get them over to the couch, and he’s going to fuck Brendon again. _Then_ he’s going to drag them both upstairs, where the box with all the sex stuff is, and he’s going to wait until Brendon’s recovered, and then fuck him _again_ after he ties Brendon’s wrists to the bed frame and teases him until Brendon screams. _Then_ he’s going to drag them both into the shower and shove Brendon on to his knees and come on his face and stare until the water washes them both clean.

And then he’s going to collapse on top of Brendon on the bed, and wrap them up under the covers, and probably whisper ridiculously gooey things against the warm, sated skin of Brendon’s chest while they both fall asleep.

That’s what he’s going to do.

Right now, though?

Right now, he’s just going to kiss Brendon senseless, kiss him until the wind comes rolling back across the plains, until all the paint they’re covered in dries and flakes, until he can no longer see the ridiculous rainbow hovering over the first letter of a word in a language he doesn’t understand, but a word that somehow means everything. He’s going to kiss Brendon until they both forget what it was like to not have this. To not have all the rest, laid out in front of them like tiny stars fallen from the sky, burying themselves in the ground and making the earth glow and light up beneath their feet.

Or at least, that’s the plan, but the paint must be itching or something, because Brendon keeps squirming beneath him and shifting in ways that aren’t even that sexy, and Spencer’s trying to have a moment, here, okay?

Spencer kisses Brendon harder, presses his body to Brendon’s until he’s sandwiched between the wall of the house and Spencer, but he’s still squirming, so Spencer grabs his wrists with one hand, his hip with the other, and slams them back against the wall so hard that even Brendon whimpers in the back of his throat.

Just when he thinks he’s getting somewhere, when he can feel the hard-on in Brendon’s overalls grind against his through two layers of denim, just when Spencer can feel the heat from the sun and the sex rushing up his spine, Brendon shifts and breaks contact in all the worst places.

Spencer married an idiot.

“Brendon,” Spencer mumbles in complaint against Brendon’s lips, because Brendon doesn’t really seem to know that he’s the most annoying man on the planet.

Brendon makes a little humming noise and proceeds to completely ignore Spencer, still fretting relentlessly under his grip.

“ _Brendon,_ ” Spencer repeats. Brendon doesn’t listen.

 _“Bren,”_ Spencer growls and squeezes the bones in Brendon’s wrists together so hard he swears he can hear them click. That, it seems, gets his attention. Spencer smirks and noses under Brendon’s ear with teeth grazing prickled skin, dragging over smooth planes of sweat-slick heat, and he knows he’s got Brendon right where he wants him now. Right where he’s always been, in that place that only he could be, filling up Spencer’s half-empty cups until they damn near flooded, and Spencer will never know how to thank him for that, so he just keeps going and hopes that somewhere along the way, Brendon understands what he means—how much more he means—when he says

“Will you _be still_ for a second?”


End file.
